A New Hook
by VivienneAndrews26
Summary: Peter Pan has grown up. Not that he'll admit it. His Wendy-bird has flown the nest, is now engaged to an utter BORE! Worse still, Peter's boys have no more battles to fight now Hook's disappeared. But, it looks like there's a new enemy to fight. A new battle to win. New territory altogether for Peter; a new Hook! Peter Pan x OC (Francesca Hooke) RATED R for content and language
1. Ladies in London

Peter Pan soared over Bloomsbury's smoke-filled skies, attempting to wipe the soot from his eye. Boys didn't cry, and certainly not Peter Pan. Most definitely not over a silly thing like a _girl_. Attempting to reassure himself that Wendy was just playing pretend. She wasn't really engaged. Not now. Not ever. She was his Wendy-bird, Mother Wendy, his _friend_ and had been for…

For how long?

He wasn't sure. Yes, they had both changed, that much was certain.

He, for one, had grown dramatically in what seemed to be no time at all, and now stood at least three heads higher than he had when he first saw Wendy, and had hair in places he had never expected to. That was surely one of the more embarrassing changes of late. Peter might have been naïve, but he wasn't wholly without a basic idea of the process of 'growing up'. He'd seen Wendy change, after all. She'd changed into something terrifying but fascinating and frankly, a little odd. She now called herself a 'lady' more often, he'd noted. She wasn't the little girl he used to know.

'' _Peter, I've grown-up''_ , she would tell him, matter-of-factly.

'' _Peter, I'm engaged.''_ That's even more grown-up! What does it even mean? What if she has children? What if one gets lost? Should be return the child to her?

Peter shook his head.

 _I can't think…_

Her words still rung in his mind.

'' _But we can still be friends, can't we?''_

And here was where Peter felt most conflicted.

With Wendy's becoming a lady, surely that meant that he'd have to stop being her friend? It was part of the Lost Boys' code, not that they had many rules. The one never to be broken was that you must never grow up. Wendy had broken that promise, and quite abruptly, too, he might add. On the other hand, she had never actually promised that she wouldn't grow up, only that she would be friends with him as long as possible. What did that even mean, 'as long as possible'?

Ah. It was too soon… Wasn't it? Too soon to go home, in any eventuality. Peter felt terribly confused. He needed to think things over, to come to terms with what he had been left with. That horrible, dreadful, hollow feeling. It began in the pit of his belly, and rose up through his chest, to his throat. Being confused was truly terrifying, and nothing terrified Peter Pan. It seemed Time had simply gotten away from him. Time didn't make sense at the best of times, not in Neverland, let alone in London. Now, flying away from Wendy's house (she no longer occupied the nursery, he had discovered; in her place was an ugly looking thing, a baby!), Peter felt more lost than he had in years. What even _is_ a year?

He didn't know.

Peter found himself flying towards a tower of weather-worn red brick, with a clock in the middle. Below lay the bustling, winding, oil-slickened railway lines of Saint Pancras station. Slowing down in flight, Peter came to rest on the ledge of the roof of the engine shed. He watched the locomotives shuffling slowly in the night, sorting out one wagon from another, moving it from here to there. It was soothing. The locomotives were somewhat like the Lost Boys, he thought, in their slow actions at the dead of night. Plotting. Shifting, like pieces in a battle plan. Not that he had been in any battles for quite some time, now Peter thought of it. His life had become meandering and gentle. Dull, even. Peter needed a battle. Something to focus his attentions on. Anything would be more welcome than the intruding thoughts in his mind. _No more Wendy._

Wiping the tears from his face gently with a leaf from his suit, the golden boy brought himself to his feet, and crowed.


	2. Alcoholic Articulations

'' _Peter, I'm sorry… I-I really am but that's just how it is. Gordon and I have been courting for some time now. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but I'm almost eighteen now. There's an expectation, and I... I want to get married. It has been fun, honestly- truly- but it really is time for me to grow up. We can still be friends though, can't we?''_

Her speech had cut through him faster than any blade he had tasted. The words on her lips felt cold, and unfeeling. Calculated even. Almost as though she had been planning this for some time. Planning to hurt him and move on. He was a silly bedtime story, one, no doubt, she would tell to her own children, in time. Children who would believe, but not for long. They all forgot in time. But that one word in particular. _Friend._ He felt... ambivalent about it. Another swig from the bottle, a hiss as the drink burned his throat, and Peter felt no clearer about any of it. At least he was slowly growing numb, it seemed; he could no longer feel a pinch on his arm. _Good._

Peter's rum-fueled sequester into his memory led to an ardent, yet stupid, desire to purge himself of Wendy. It all seemed a bit pointless now, trying to hold onto her. Onto what they seemed to have had. She had said she had been twelve when they had met. Twelve. It was a lifetime ago, for him at least. _That's… five years_ , Peter thought bitterly, kicking the waves lapping at his toes. _Five bloody years of building up to fail_. He'd flown out to see her every year by that point. Keeping track of Time in Neverland was impossible, yet somehow, he just _knew_ when it was her birthday. And every year, he watched her grow. Socially. Physically. He felt a stirring in his leaven trousers, and had to adjust his seating in order to prevent an embarrassment. Not that he'd dare admit he'd had feelings for her, in any capacity. They'd been there before, during their dance prior to her capture by Hook. Another name which made his mouth feel like cotton had been rammed into it. His grip tightened on the bottle; it wasn't helping, apparently.

 _Fucking hell…_

It had been some time since Peter had antagonised the old Captain, almost eight months. The last time he had visited The Jolly Roger, or indeed its now tawdry tyrant, Wendy had threatened to leave Peter, and indeed Neverland forever. He laughed it off, of course, as all boys do. But Wendy surprised him. She seemed… sympathetic, to the Captain.

'' _The man must be at least fifty by now, Peter! Can't you just grow up and leave the poor man alone? Honestly…''_

There it was. The threat of growing up. Maturing. No matter how Wendy put it, delicately or bluntly, Peter had always shied away from his duty. That same night, that of his last visit to his old enemy, Peter and Wendy had become embroiled in a passionate night of… nothing. They had kissed, of course. Twice, in fact. But it had never gone any further. The boy simply didn't know what to do. Oh, he'd heard from the pirates, of course, during his spying. He knew that men and women would 'fuck' and 'bugger' and 'bob' and what-have-you. Apparently, even boys and girls did things with each other, sometimes. The mermaids and Indians certainly supported that. Peter himself had even kissed an Indian boy when Wendy wasn't around, not that it did anything for him. It wasn't unpleasant, but it simply wasn't the same. It wasn't Wendy.

Peter wouldn't have confessed to his embarrassment, but he too felt awkward and shy at the thought of being… intimate with Wendy.

The boy grimaced. How he hated the bottle. How it made sure he remembered every painful intimate little detail of his half a decade with that gi- that _woman_. He threw the bottle into the waves, adjusted his leaven trousers (now worn with a shirt, stolen, again), ran his hands through his flaxen locks, and sighed. ''I can't keep hold of anything…'' he slurred, his toes scrunched the sand between them; his lips became frayed from his teeth, the constant threat of tears wearing away their pink layers. _I remember this making me feel numb… But now it's just making me feel… everything…_

''One… One last time. If I die it will be a great adventure!'' He proclaimed, rising to the air in a jerky motion, his drunken stupor feeding his male bravado.

Out in the bay rested the moored hulk, the remnants of the once-proud _Jolly Roger_. Peter felt a smirk in the corner of his mouth, and set out towards the creaking carcass.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Flying with an alcohol-induced lean, Peter made his way to the _Jolly Roger_ , circling its entirety close to the waterline, not wishing to be detected by any crew members. He chuckled to himself, pausing to look at claw marks made in the hull by The Crocodile. _When were these made…? I don't remember looking before…_ The memory of the Crocodile seemed almost too distant to be true now. _Wasn't there a bell… no, a clock, that's right, in the belly of the beast, and Hook's hand was eaten by it?_ It all seemed rather far-fetched, but vaguely familiar. Peter doubted it was one of Wendy's stories. He remembered all of those. They got jolly predictable, he found, but he enjoyed them nonetheless. Wasn't there _Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty_ … Hook once declared they were 'love stories'! _Foolish old man. Love stories indeed_ …. Peter didn't need love, he might care for Wendy a lot but love?

 _Love._

God, there she was- again! Wendy, Wendy, FUCKING Wendy! With her face flashing through his mind, her presence there seemed interminable. Pan shook his head as he climbed the ladder up the side of the ship, and slumped down onto the deck, managing to walk somehow quietly over to the door to the private cabin despite his drunken stupor. _Peter, my boy, this wasn't very well thought through… Then again, neither was not finishing that bottle, you prat,_ his shadow encouraged him as he found himself toe-to- door with the Captain's quarters. The door opened with a stiff judder, and thereafter Peter found himself in the chambers of Captain James Hook.

Peter didn't even take the time to take in his surroundings. Marching into the centre of the room, and facing the bed, he began to vent his frustrations, all those years of pent up anger and jealousy. It was catharsis at its finest:

''So, you… you miserable _CODFISH_! You must be so proud of her… Wendy. Yes, so proud that she's decided to grow up! Back! Back to London! She's going to be married and have children and… a husband, and…''

Peter's voice grew quiet, cracking slowly into a mournful sob. His hands once more covered his eyes, denying the blatant tears falling from his pain. He finally drew courage to voice his realisation. The one that had haunted him all the way back from London, the only thing he could think about as he rode the Wind's back.

''… And she'll forget me… Wendy-bird...'' Peter's hands fell away from his face, and began to wring and hold each other, nails digging into the palms leaving small marks resembling birds. His cries dulled to a whisper, choking, and he mumbled to the room, ''I am alone again. I'm no better than you''. His out-pour concluded, and, for the second time in his life, Peter felt very exposed.

The figure in the bed stirred, and sat up slowly. Peter couldn't see its face, only hair. Dark hair. In heavy ringlets. An object shone with the reflection of the moonlight through the windows, by the figure's left hand. Wait… Where the left hand _should_ be.

 _Oh God… Oh fuck oh God oh… Too much!_ Peter retreated into the corner of the room, curling up against a cabinet. He drew his legs up to his chest and hugged his knees, hoping for some form of comfort. There was none. His body was beginning to fight him, now, pouring every thought and feeling, every argument and memory into the fore of his mind. An overwhelming desire to be physically sick took over him; thankfully, he didn't. If he was to die now, it would happen without any struggle. His pain was too great. _Even Hook wouldn't deny me this dignity_ , he hoped. _Let it be over quickly_.

A match was lit, and a candle followed, bathing the room in a pale golden glow. A voice spoke.

A new voice.


	3. Doors and Windows

_Author's Note:_ Hello to all my readers, thank you for those of you who are following my story and have enjoyed it thus far. I'd very much appreciate reviews at some point, just so I can gauge the reception to my story better.

There will be some more action from characters soon, I promise! For now, I'm building the base for the story, and this next chapter (possibly the one following it, too) will be used to develop the dynamic between Peter and the 'new Hook'.

. . . . . .

She looked out across the room, shielding the candle's light with her hand so as to not startle any shadows, lest they are not attached to their owner. Shadows are mischievous things if let loose on their own. Assured that there were no errant shadows in the room, she addressed the boy slumped in a corner, sobbing gently.

''Boy, why are you crying...?

Why are you here? I imagine you've come for him one last time… Pan.''

Pan. His name felt strange on her lips. It was no longer the poison of her youth, the dark, impish figure who haunted her dreams as a child. Rather, Pan, a frightened child, unintimidating and helpless. Nay, not a child- a man. In her presence. On her father's ship. _Is he surrendering himself?_ Cautiously, the young woman withdrew from her bed and dropped her feet to the floor, landing softly on a faded silk rug laid over the ship's time-worn timbers. Yet another example of the rich, residual tastes of her father which reigning supreme over Captain's Quarters; a dated style, yes, but still of quality in its old age.

Peter refused to acknowledge her, instead wiping the tears away from his face and making brave, taking to his feet slowly. In the low candlelight, his face looked markedly different to how she'd been led to believe he would. It was soft, yes, but with mature features that Hook or any of the other pirates had not described. He was almost caught halfway between child and man. Almost; his mannerisms firmly placed him in the former category. But his eyes… His eyes remained unchanged from all the stories The Captain had told her. A deep, deep blue, like that of crushed velvet. Eyes which, until now, glowed with an infantile joy and had a mischievous splash of grey, just outside their centres. Sandy blond hair was streaked with lighter strands, his skin was tan, and lean. He glared at her, trying to remain steady on his feet.

 _She didn't see me crying. I don't cry._

''Hook? Aye! I'm… I'm here for him! He took everything from me!'' The boy slurred his words, becoming increasingly undone in his tone. _Shit…_

 _I feel… I feel fucking… Awful…_ He reached out for the sideboard, attempting to steady himself as he prepared to continue his verbal tirade against the strange woman before him. _Shut up and leave, idiot!_ His mind screamed, but Peter regained his balance, resuming the stare-off with this…

Peter looked again at the figure, trying to focus on her features. Dark hair, tall, slender, and… a red coat? _Fuck… It's… It IS Hook…_ He breathed out through his mouth, more confused than ever. ''I… I came for you, Hook! You codfish! I-I will run you through! She… You gave her the bloody idea!'' Fumbling at his waist, the Crow attempted to draw his sword, but failed, instead only pulling away a fistful of dead leaves from his crumbling ensemble.

''What's going on there?!'' A voice rumbled from outside the door. ''Ma'am?''

Hook's eyes darted to the door, and then back to her home invader. ''Stay quiet. Get over to the bed, now.'' She hissed, and strode to the door quickly, answering it without ceremony. ''I'm fine, thank you Smee, it was just a nightmare''.

''Are you sure, Miss, only it's… well, you know how I promised Cap'n and that-''

''Honestly, I'm fine, but thank you. Please, return to your post'' she finished, drawing her dressing gown about her and closing the door gently behind her. Sighing, Miss Hook walked back into the room proper and looked over to the bed, noting that Peter had indeed done as he was told. _That's not what I expected…_ _For such a 'clever' and wonderful boy, he's such a child._

He was sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing his knee gently and muttering, 'Wendy… Wendy…'

Hook's heart sank a little. _Surely his heart isn't broken? Father always told me he can't love. What am I saying? He's a… A…_

 _A mess._

Holding her arms around her waist, the young lady climbed onto the bed slowly, and shuffled around to just over an arm's distance from Peter; she did not want to place herself in danger with such an emotionally volatile man-child in her room. ''Peter…'' She began, not sure what to say. What could you say to such a person? I'm quite sure I don't know.

He twisted his body to face her properly and mumbled incoherently.

''I'm sorry, I… I didn't catch that.'' She responded, leaning back a little in case he exploded once more.

''you're not him'' Peter repeated, ''You're… You're not Hook. You're a girl… Fuck… I'm so lost…'' He sniffled, wiping his nose on his arm; Hook overlooked his action, and nodded gently.

''Yes, that's right. I'm a girl, I'm Hook's daughter, Francesca… And you're Peter Pan…'' She paused before asking tentatively, ''Do you know why you came here?''

Peter visibly tensed up; Francesca panicked. _Is he going to burst out again?_ He wriggled back a little on the bed, drew his knees up to his chest, and sighed again. ''Hook… I was… I wanted to fight him… I…'' Suddenly, his face became pale, and Peter trembled.

''Are you alright?''

He shook his head, and stumbled off the bed, making for the window. Clearly, Crows are not tolerant of their alcohol; Peter emptied his stomach, and fell back onto the floor, whimpering and began to sob. ''Wendy's not mine anymore… And it's Hook's fault!'' He cried, sniffling.

 _What a mess… I don't even know where to start. But Father can't know he's here!_

Putting her own prerogatives to the back of her mind, Francesca sighed, rolled up her sleeves and avowed herself to help the man-child on her bedroom floor. _If only for a night_ , she thought, _then I can be rid of him and he will be safe from Father, and himself. Now, where do I start..?_

. . . . . . .

Hello everyone, I think I know where this story is going to be going now, though I'll be trying to avoid any cliché tropes and plot points as I go along.

Please leave a review, I would really appreciate some feedback! If anyone has any suggestions as to where you think the story ought to go, I'd be grateful for that, too.

Vivienne.


	4. Lead Windows

A/N: Thank you to my one reviewer so far, I hope to see more reviews creeping through soon. I'm going to try to update the story fortnightly, working around my university commitments- I hope you understand.

On with the story!

Vivienne

. . . . . . . . .

Peter rolled in the buttery soft sheets, moaning lightly under his breath. Light streamed in through the lead-lined windows of the ship's cabin, slowly illuminating the space. His body was swallowed entirely by the bed, a single green leaf resting on a forest floor. His breast rose and fell softly with each breath, hands holding the sheets comfortably; a gentle smile spread across his face, reaching the corners of his mouth quickly. Stirred by the sunlight, Peter began to wake, and as he rose realised he hadn't ever seen the _Jolly Roger_ this intimately before. His head was pounding, a regretful reminder of the vast quantity of whiskey and rum he had ingested the night before.

 _What did I even do last night…?_

Light moans and whimpers found their way to his ear; a girl was in the bed beside him. The boy froze in panic. _Who is she?_ And then it all came flooding back.

The drink.

The flying.

The crying.

And Wendy.

Fucking Wendy.

He groaned, and brought a hand to his head, shaking it slowly. _What DID I do? How did I get in here? Who is she?_

He couldn't quite recall that detail; the girl's name escaped him, though her raven curls gave him a heavy hint. _Hook._ The girl mumbled in her slumber, rolling over to face him, and sleepily grabbed at his arm. The room began to grow warmer, a slight flush growing across Pan's face. The girl looked so gentle, so peaceful. Slowly the details of the night before came to him; she was Hook's daughter, and she knew that he had come to fight the Captain one last time, Peter felt a growing sense of guilt in his stomach. A guilt that rose to his throat, catching his breath.

Jumping to his feet quickly, and walking unsteadily over to the window, Peter opened a window just enough to allow his head to hang out and proceeded to bring up bile until his throat felt dry. _Fuck…_ The thought of having embarrassed himself in front of a total stranger, of showing his weaknesses, especially that of Wendy, was almost too much to bear. He steadied his hands against the window frame, and breathed deeply, bathing in the sea air, the salt stinging his nostrils. He wasn't sure what he should do. If he stayed she'd likely try to talk to him (what was it with girls and their incessant talking?) or possibly fight him herself; Peter smiled inwardly, a brief memory of his fight with 'Red-Handed Jill', Wendy's alter-ego. But then that crushing, suffocating hand of hurt found its way around his heart once more. They had only fought due to Peter's ignorance and overt male bravado; Hook had provided Wendy with an even more fulfilling escape, a role, a _name_ , even. He had allowed her to become a woman, _the_ woman she was inside.

Hook was the source of Wendy's maturation, the one who drove the wedge between the two of them.

''You're awake?''

He spun on his toes quickly, arm reaching for his sword, only to be grasping at air.

''My sword… What the fuck have you done with my sword?!'' Peter roared, charging at the bed; the girl cowered a little, before bracing herself against the head of the bed, and folded her arms, attempting to be authoritative.

''Your sword? Well, if you ever want to get it back _and_ find yourself still alive, I'd start by asking politely and being quieter. Don't forget my cabin has a guard…'' She said calmly, eyes fixed on his chest. Francesca dared not look him in the eye; Peter was volatile, and understandably confused and angry. She had to try to remain civil, and calm, and most of all, ladylike. She was the adult in the situation. _Just keep him talking, keep him away from the door, but most importantly, keep him_ _ **away from his sword,**_ she repeated to herself in her head, kneading the bedsheets in her hands to remain calm.

Peter's eyebrow twitched, his knuckles white with repressed rage as he stalked over to the bed, trapping the girl with his sight. She appeared not to be afraid of him, but he knew how intimidating he could be. On several occasions, one of the Boys had wet themselves with fear when he had lost his temper with them. So long as he could maintain his presence and his intimidation tactics, he knew he could win.

 _Get the sword, and just fly on until you're back to the tree, Peter_ , he told himself. Mission set, his feet took eleven strides to the side of the bed, and quickly took hold of Francesca's wrist, prompting a pained whimper. ''Where. Is. My. Sword?'' he asked again, looking her straight in the eye. Blue Ocean swirled around the girl's dark, dark irises, drowning her in mild terror.

''I… I told you, ask politely…'' She replied, instantly regretting her decision. ''I was told never to tolerate r-rudeness…'' Hooke hissed, trying not to cave into the pain her wrist was being subjected to.

''I'm not being rude, I just want my fucking sword!''

A knock came at the door, muffled enquiries as to Francesca's wellbeing following. She whimpered again softly, pressing herself back into the bed, attempting to bring her breathing back into check. ''Y-Yes, I just woke up from a bad dream, that's all. I'll be out soon for breakfast'' she replied, waiting for the gruff grunt which confirmed her status. Peter was now looming over her small frame, still swaddled in her sheets and bedclothes. _I won't do it… I won't… He won't get to me!_ She steeled herself, determined not to let Peter win.

''For the last time, where is my sword?'' He snarled under his breath, now holding both of Francesca's wrists tightly, his tan hands as gold bracelets about her untainted milky flesh. His eyes darted around the room, searching for any trace of weaponry. Given the quarters were formally the Captain's, he imagined there would be any number of swords to lay his hands on; but he had eyes for only one, his first, stolen from a sailor who had dared question his authority on Neverland, and met his end at his own sword. Terrified, Francesca looked quickly over to the window seat, the cushion of which was laying strangely, as though a long, thin object were under it. She bit her lip, desperately hoping the boy above her wouldn't notice. Chest rising and falling heavily, the mistress Hooke began to cry silently. ''Y-You're hurting me… ''

Peter's eyes came back to meet hers fully for the first time; in an instant he had flown from the bed, retrieved his sword, and taken a valiant stance atop of the barrel-chest at the foot of the bed.

''Oh, the cleverness of me!'' he proclaimed. ''I knew you hadn't hidden it _that_ well!'' The boy chuckled once more, then his face hardened his entire disposition more horrific than before. Slowly, he walked back over to the bed, his arsenal once more complete. ''Now, why did you put me to bed last night? Did you try to poison me with medicine? Is that why I was sick?'' His sword was drawn from its sheath, the steel ringing with the action. The figure in the bed trembled, stuck fast to the bedhead. She was lost for words, she was going to die, she was-

She was Francesca Hooke, and took no nonsense from any man, or man-child. ''I-I..' I cared for you, last night. I didn't have to!'' she retaliated, trying to appear not as concerned for her life as she was. _If he's going to be this rude, you shouldn't give him an answer!_ Her logic screamed, but for some reason Francesca could not quite explain, she lowered her guard to the boy, giving up the fort. Bringing her legs up to her chest, and arms around those, her voice quietened, barely a murmur.

''You seemed broken… Like you needed a mother…'' She looked up at him and looked him square in the eye. ''A mother''.


	5. Pocketed

_Author's note:_

Hello everyone! I'm so sorry it's been so long, university has been a killer, and I wasn't sure where to take the story next, but I think I've got a handle on it now. And away we go…!

 _I don't own Peter Pan, or the rights, I'm just having fun reinventing an old favourite_.

Peter stepped back on his left leg; a mother? A mother?! He hadn't had one of those in years. What use was a mother to him, anyway? All of his Lost Boys had been banished (or rather, they had banished him; if there is one rule you never break as a Lost Boy, it is that of not growing up). ''I don't need a mother.'' he mumbled, turning his back on the girl. ''I don't need anyone.'' And with that, he clambered up into the window frame, set his sights on the horizon, and jumped, leaving Francesca quaking in her bed.

''What was all that last night Miss?'' Smee asked at breakfast, very obviously on behalf of the Captain. ''Sounded quite the ruckus!'' he chuckled gravelly to himself, coming back to Francesca's side to pour her another flask of small beer.

''N-No more for me, thank you!'' she interjected quickly, placing her small hand over the top of the cup. ''I told you, I just had a nightmare. I'm quite alright now, thank you''. Francesca took care to pull her sleeves down slightly, covering her bruise-bracelets from her rough-handling by Pan. A flush came to her cheeks quickly; she had almost enjoyed the experience.

''Got to be careful though Miss, there's all sorts 'anging roun' the Island''.

She chewed her lip gently, thinking about the events of the previous night. Was she wrong to have cared for Pan? Perhaps. She should have shoved him right back out of the window. Let the boy drown. And yet she still felt twinges in her heart at the memory of the boy, drunk out of his little mind, broken-hearted and defeated. _And all by a girl._

Of course, Francesca had heard of such things during her schooling. Of how love is a powerful thing; one single drop of it, and you are doomed. As such, her father had never shown her any. Oh, he was polite to her, of course, and paid her tuition at Brighton College (''A Lady must have a knowledge of society and of sea-faring'' he often told her; quite why he elected for Brighton and not Portsmouth or Southampton was anyone's guess), but Hook was not involved in his daughter's life any more than he needed to be. Perhaps he feared developing an attachment. Perhaps he feared her attachment.

At any rate, Hook was a man without love. Francesca was even made to change her name, Hooke, in order to distance herself from her only family. Now seventeen, and finished with her schooling, she was effectively a captive on her father's ship. He kept her well, but did not socialise with her, preferring to take sabbaticals on one of the longboats for weeks at a time. The one saving grace he did pay his daughter was exclusive use of the Captain's Quarters in the ship's castle; at least there, she had space of her own. Captivity, but privacy.

Resting her head in her hand ever-so-delicately, Hooke stared down the length of the table, over the cured meats and fresh fruits, ruminating whether her father had ever been defeated by a woman. And just who this mysterious Wendy was. She must be quite a formidable woman to have brought the great Pan to such a state… she pondered, caught between sympathy and admiration.

''Anythin' else I can get 'ee?''

She shook her head politely in response, and Smee cleared the plates away, leaving Francesca to her thoughts. Reaching into her dressing gown pocket, she pulled out a carefully preserved green skeleton leaf, and dropped it into her remaining beer, watching it sink mournfully to the bottom of the flask.

 _Pan… You're quite the mystery._


	6. Touch Me Again

Safely back in his den, Peter sat in the large branch-throne which dominated the small space, sighing heavily to himself. His sword was safe, and perhaps his reputation wasn't in tatters. The girl- _Hooke_ – seemed to have been sufficiently terrified as to not speak a word of her experience with him. He closed his eyes, and threw his head back, lolling over the throne's arm, relaxing his weary body; the alcohol was still in his system, though he had to admit, the girl had done a reasonable job of caring for him, and had taken the edge off it all. All that remained was a slight headache and achy joints; nothing a night in his own bed wouldn't fix.

 _I shan't thank her though. It wasn't her job to do!_

He had made up his mind. The girl, the ship, and Hook himself, they weren't worth bothering with anymore. And yet she occupied his mind that afternoon.

 _She never even told me her name… Not that I care, of course!_

A memory jumped to mind- his second encounter with Wendy. He had learned her name quickly. Their first meeting was anonymous, awkward even; he, hovering over her in bed, and she beneath him, innocent and green. Peter shook his head; this encounter with the _girl_ wasn't anything like that. She had taken advantage of _him_! Kept him there, cleaned him- and then he froze in his thoughts.

She had _cleaned_ him. There was no trace of vomit, nor tears. Even his fingers had been scrubbed clean. His face flushed; how had she managed it? Why did she do it? It seemed such an odd thing to have done, even in his state. And then it occurred to him; she was being a _mother._

Peter scoffed to the empty room, and chuckled, a chuckle which grew darker. ''I told her, I don't need a mother. What the fuck did she think she was doing?'' He ran his fingers through his sandy curls, sighing again. The more he thought about it, the more he _did_ recall some things from the previous night. Including the bathing. His blush grew deeper, and his leaf-suit strangely tighter in his nether-regions.

' _I'm going to u-undress you, if that's okay…? Good, now… Now if you'll- no, please be quiet… Oh do please be quiet, I can't have my Father or the crew find you… That's better, now if you just lie still, I'll c-clean you, alright? I'll try not to tickle…'_

The boy's crotch strained even more as the sensory memory of her hands running the damp rag along his toned arms, chest, over his tan nipples and down his stomach began to overload his mind. How that petite hand worked its way around his body, up his legs, feet, thigh-

He couldn't take it anymore. His body betrayed him. Peeling the leaves off his body, Peter sat back in his chair, took a hold of his hardened length, and began to stroke gently. It was not his first foray into onanism, indeed, he was quite mastered in the art of wanking. And yet Peter wasn't even sure why he was having such thoughts over _her_.

 _I must just be missing Wendy…_ he thought glumly, but then the concept of potentially having the Hooke girl's hands running down his body again, cleaning him… Or-or more… It was too tempting. Lying on his back, he continued to stroke, twisting his hand up and down, focusing on the sensitive patch of skin between his cock's shaft and head, the other alternating between teasing his sweet nipples and rubbing his prostate externally, just below his heavy balls.

His moans soon grew to gentle whimpers, and, biting his lip, the Golden Boy wriggled his hips, knowing he would soon 'crow'.

. . . . . .

Preparing herself for bed (for Francesca had no maid), the young Mistress Hooke stepped out of her shoes, and admired her figure in the mirror on the reverse of the door.

 _I may still marry someday…_

She surveyed her slender waist, developed bust, accentuated by her stays- the Captain would never allow his daughter to enter the deck improperly dressed- and reasonable legs, and pouted. ''But then, who would you find out here who would marry and make an honest lady of you?'' Unlacing her corset was rather more of a challenge, but she managed, massaging her sides once the garment was removed from her torso. Although she liked the results, for the most part, Francesca appreciated the freedom more. Her hand slipped gently over her nipple, and she let out a little whimper.

 _D-did I…?_

 _No…_

She did it again. And whimpered again. Straightening herself before her mirror, hair down and loose from its customary style, the girl began to massage her breasts softly, working her way down her waist and to her hips, paying close attention to her face. Watching her breath hitch as her fingers danced over her pert nipples, small stomach, and down to her-

 _I can't…_

Though she liked the feeling, it didn't seem right. Oh, she wasn't entirely innocent to masturbation. And you couldn't live either on a ship or at a ladies' college without picking up a few titbits along the way. But it was frightfully embarrassing. Perhaps it was being stood in front of a mirror, being able to appraise herself. Or, maybe it was the guard's regular, heavy breathing behind the closed door that Francesca found off-putting. But, it would seem, tonight was not a night for frigging herself into a frothing fancy.

. . . . . .

''F-Fuck…'' Peter's hand was pumping his dick furiously, his breath quick and a thin veneer of sweat coating his hot body. The pace of his strokes bounced his loaded balls, and his hips writhed, longing for a warm cunt to be driving into. He saw it all as a game, how long he could last. At this moment he didn't care that she was _his_ daughter, all Pan knew was that her hands – the fucking _thought_ of her hands- on his body, on his _cock_ , or more of her, was what he desired, what he _needed._

Savouring the thought of ploughing into her sweet quim, he trilled his spare fingers once more on that sensitive patch between his arse and bollocks, and, spasming, spilt his seed down his tan stomach, crying out. She _would_ be his, his new toy. Pan would have a new girl, a better girl. One who could take a good fucking.

''Hooke!''

And then…


	7. Costumes

**A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you to all my readers, I'm glad I seem to have maintained something of an audience! Apologies for not updating more regularly, I was just a bit stumped for a while as to how to continue this story, but I think I've got a handle on it now.**

 **. . . .**

Francesca awoke the next morning, her clothes still in a pile on the floor. She blushed, feeling her stocking-clad thighs rub against each other under the cotton covers. It was a sudden shot of sensuality, directed to her very core. But the bloom of her cheeks did not last long; three deep, resounding thuds were planted on her bedroom door, leaving the full-length mirror on its reverse quaking.

''Daughter. Get dressed and see yourself to the after-deck. I expect to see you shortly.'' The sound of her father's footsteps receding from the cabin were enough to inform her that she both had limited time in which to prepare herself, and that she was most likely in deep trouble.

She pulled herself up from the poster bed, and dressed as quickly as possible, subconsciously selecting a green print day dress. Time seemed to have no meaning in Neverland; whilst Francesca had graduated from Brighton College in 1884, all the people she had encountered, or at least heard of, in the alternate land, had come to the Island across the centuries. Indeed, her own Father had found himself sailing for Neverland, having set out for the Mediterranean, in the 1790s, at least according to the ships' logs she'd found stored away in the depths of one of the cabin's cupboards. Most unusual.

A result of such temporal fluidity, Francesca had access to all sorts of different period fashion, from the 1750s through to the 1910s, the latter of which was not to her taste. Lacing up her stays to a comfortable tension (no point wearing them any tighter than was comfortable), having already pulled on fresh cream silk stockings, bloomers and chemise, finishing her ensemble with a pale green cotton bodice and skirt, hanging over a complimentary cream leaf-patterned underskirt and soft petticoats, her costume for the day was almost complete. The same mundane routine, dressing for no-one but her Father. Sighing as she looked in the mirror, reviewing her hemline quickly, the Pirate Daughter finished her ensemble by pinning her hair up simply, adjusting her hat, and stepped out into the morning sea air.

. . . . .

Jas. Hook rarely bothered his daughter anymore, seeing her as a nuisance, an accident, that had to be kept alive but at his behest. He had ensured her education, that much was true, but following the death of her mother, the chit had nowhere else to stay and had no experience of courting, no friends with whom she could reside (not that Hook would allow it; what an embarrassment for the great Cap'n Hook, to not be able to support his own daughter.) and thus her duty of care fell to him. He was, after all, the father of the child. When he had collected her from Portsmouth, the Captain had considered training her in seamanship, but the notion quickly passed. It was an unsuitable occupation for a young lady. A memory tugged a smirk at the left-side of his aged mouth. _Red-handed Jill._ Now there was a keen young female pirate, and who knows, had Wendy decided to remain under his care, he might have made her his own…

Oh, Hook had seen her since their last encounter. He occasionally stalked Pan to London, trying to fathom out the child further. But the boy was more complicated than he had first imagined. That forbidden word, the one that tasted like ash or soil on his tongue, _love,_ was the one constant in Pan's life. His… affection for the Darling girl had broken him, bringing him to London again and again. The sight of Pan's now-blossomed Wendy-Bird had caused his breeches to tighten many a time. How he had dreamed, lusted over the whip, daring to imagine himself in the role of Husband, introducing the girl to pleasures she had yet to taste.

But alas, it was a fruitless dream. The Boy Who Would Never Grow Up continued his visitations, and ironically broke his own rule; he felt, he loved, and he began to become a Man.

''Ahem… Father?''

Hook was brought back to reality suddenly. He was at the ship's balustrade, peering into the blue-black seas below. His reflection was harrowing. limp, white, thin hair, a moth-eaten hat, and a coat which no longer fit him properly. The former handsome-yet-terrifying gentleman pirate was a mere Shadow, hiding behind a name and a reputation.

''I've told you before, Child, do _not_ refer to me so casually.'' Turning to face his addressor, Captain James Hook attempted to straighten his stature, to reclaim his authority. Looking his daughter over quickly, he pulled his cigar holder from the coat's pocket, and, right on cue, Smee appeared, inserting two finest tobacco fingers into the slots before returning to his background duties. ''So… I hear you had a nightmare a couple of nights ago. How _unfortunate_ for you.''

The crew continued to work around the pair, effectively creating a bubble around them. Ropes being thrown, decks swabbed, brass monkeys checked for cracks and polished. The sound of the _Jolly Roger_ flag fluttering in the breeze was sharp against the girl's ear. Waanting to feign ignorance, and keep in polite practice, Francesca reached into the deck's desk tidy, picked out a silver lighter, leaning closer to ignite her father's vice. He took a deep drag, coughed, leaning on the balustrade once more.

''Yes… but it hasn't upset me, Sir. It-it was nothing, honestly.'' Her palms became sweaty; she attempted to dry them on her skirts. ''Smee, no doubt, told you? It was just a dream.''

''A dream where you change voices?''

The cigar-holder was twirled betwixt Hook's right forefinger and index, signifying his rumination of the situation. ''I believe'', he said, exhaling another large lungful of death fumes, ''you may have had a visitor.''

 _How can he possibly know? I've made no reference to Pan! He left nothing behind, I cleaned the cabin after he left._

 _Oh no…_

Smee once again stepped forward and plucked a carefully-dried skeleton leaf from a tinder-box, holding it out for Hooke to examine. She took it in her hand, and appraised it, attempting to maintain her veneer of innocence. ''I don't know where this has come from Fa-Sir. It's a skeleton leaf, isn't it?''. Pinching it between her forefinger and thumb, the girl looked it over more closely, carefully. ''Yes… I'd say it is. But what's so significant about this? It's just a leaf, surely?''

''Oh yes. Just a leaf. But a leaf whose… originator… has caused no end of trouble for me over the years. And I should hope he has not made your situation any worse. After all, damaged goods are harder to barter with.'' He said ominously.

Francesca turned to look out over the sea, blanching at the thought of being referred to as _saleable_.

''You're confusing me, I don't know what you're talking about, Captain.''

He took a step closer, standing behind his daughter. Leaning over her right shoulder and exhaling yet another vile mouthful of strong American tobacco, he chuckled darkly. ''You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about, daughter mine. Pan visited your cabin, looking for me, didn't he? One last battle?''

His breath stung the girl's eyes, and his words brought that night flashing back.

 _How could he possibly know the details? I know Smee didn't hear all of it… He only heard the loudest parts of the night. Pet-Pan wasn't even that loud. He was just upset. Yes, that's right, and I managed to quieten him down… And-and then, we shared a bed… I held him, crying. He cried himself to sleep. That's all there was to it. Yes, that's all. He knows nothing._

And yet, a tell-tale blush crept over her cheeks swiftly, only fuelling the Captain's suspicions. He observed her breath hitch as he went on to describe an outline of the night's events. The drunken stumbling of Pan, his sobbing, even the _bathing_.

''Yes, you _stupid_ girl, I know everything that happened that night. No doubt you laid with the boy, too, and have ruined yourself.''

She opened her mouth to speak, but was silenced by the taste of steel on her lips.

The captain sneered.

''But, I'm sure there's a solution to that…''

. . . . .

 **Historical notes:**

 **Character costumes: Francesca will be wearing fashions from different time periods throughout the story, and I'll try to post links to the inspiration for each ensemble as I go along. This first dress is a day dress from the 1790s, as worn by the character Morwenna in** _ **Poldark**_ **; http: [space] /poldark [space] . [space] com/wiki/Morwenna_Chynoweth (remove the spaces to view the link). It appears to be a cotton woven fabric over a complimentary printed cotton. In my mind, Francesca's dress is similar to this, only in a green cotton print, with the visible underskirt half cream-coloured.**

 **Brighton College: a secondary education public school, founded in 1845, co-educational (as far as I can find online) from its founding.**

 **Lighters: The lighter was invented in 1826, and given Neverland seems to be temporally unstable, it stands to reason Hook could well have one.**


	8. Thimble

Peter paced around his den, struggling to find ways of occupying himself that day. He had already _achieved_ twice that morning prior to leaving his bed-pile, and the notion of flying around on pure investigative grounds didn't appeal.

 _If I could remember a story, I'd tell one of those to myself… But She always told them the best_ , he thought glumly, perching himself upon a cushion by the tree-stump in the centre of the den. Every day it would be sawn down at ground level, and by dinner-time, had grown to be the perfect height for a table. But, he'd found dinner had become later and later since his Boys had left him. Sighing deeply and spreading his legs in some sort of bored rag-doll behaviour, the Crow reached for his thimble, his kiss (even now, he got confused as to the right terminology), only to find his fingers graze his bare chest.

The thimble was gone.

. . . .

 _Why did he have this?_ She questioned herself, examining the thimble, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger gently, as though she were afraid of tarnishing the ornament. It was unusually clean, yet patinated, for such a possession of the Nymph-boy. Clearly, it was of some sentimental value to him.

''What do you mean to him?'' Francesca pondered aloud, careful to not be overheard by her pirate guard stationed at her door. As ever, she was resigned to her cabin, but she was never truly alone. Setting the thimble down on her desk, she leaned over it and grabbed a few sheets of (carefully hoarded) letter-writing paper. Left only with books, pen and paper usually for entertainment, she often found herself writing stories, poems, or character observations about people she encountered on her rare jaunts to the Island. Her quill poised, the Mistress Hooke prepared to write. Write on _Pan._

. . . .

 _She must have it. Shit._

He _really_ did not want to have to return to the ship. That woman… She was unhinged. Saying she was acting as his Mother. And the thought of her touching his body while he was utterly wankered was almost too embarrassing to revisit. No, he was resigned to having lost his memento of Wendy. That was fine.

She was gone.

It was gone.

He was- gone. Peter rose to his feet, walked calmly to the entrance of his den, and then ran into flight, in a clear area of the immediate woodland. He _had_ to have that thimble back.

. . .

 _~Francesca's Thoughts on Peter Pan~_

 _He's rude. And blunt._

 _Brash._

 _Childish. Cannot stand being told 'no' or being faced with something he doesn't like._

 _Sentimental? Who gave him this thimble?_

 _Dirty. I had to wash him twice. (_ she blushed, glancing at the mirror as she remembered the sight of his body briefly before returning to her stream of consciousness)

 _Vulnerable? He seemed so afraid without his sword._

 _Innocent. He would not let go of my hand as he fell asleep._

 _Villainous. He chopped off The Captain's hand._

 _Handsome. If boyish. (_ She struck out this point twice before committing it to paper; the girl was determined to be frank.)

 _Intriguing._

As her pen hovered for her next point, she noticed a small tuft of sandy-blond hair, hovering under the leaden window frame. What to do? If he came in, he might well be aggressive again. And she didn't want to place herself in danger. But, on the other hand… She _was_ curious to learn more about him. Study him, perhaps.

Chewing her lip momentarily, she carefully opened the window, quietly as possible, and beckoned the boy come into her cabin.

''M-''

He was instantly silenced; a gesture to the ship's Castle above them, and a clean, lily-white hand over his mouth, was clearly understood in his eyes. Francesca removed her hand slowly and moved back to allow Peter to climb in over her desk, holding her breath until his feet touched the ground near-silently.

''What are you back for? I thought you were done with me, with the _Rodger_ , and Fa- The Captain?'' She rapidly fired questions in a hushed voice.

Peter grabbed his thimble off the desk and turned back to face the girl. ''What were you doing with this?'' he demanded in return. ''I can ask questions too, can't I?'' The girl opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again, sighing in vexation. Talking would be impossible on the ship; Peter was volatile, he'd react in a large way and her Father's knowledge of his visit would only be reinforced. The Captain would have even more ammunition against her. Instead, a risky solution made its way into her head, much as a fairy might wriggle laughter into one's tummy, or pull tears from one's eyes when they are being especially mean.

''We can't talk here.'' She told him bluntly, ''It's too difficult. Might we… That is, if you don't mind,'' she flushed, looking away from him, ''we could talk on the Island?''

Peter appraised her momentarily, narrowing his eyes. ''Why are you so keen to talk properly? All I wanted was my thimble back… Say, are those storybooks?!''

Francesca was taken aback. Was a boy his age truly distracted by fairy tales? Judging by the speed at which he tore to the bookshelf set into the cabin's wall, yes, he was. And he was particularly enraptured with tales of love. A small smile tugged at her lips, fading in comparison to Peter's impish grin. ''Which one's your favourite? I'll bet it's something girly like… um… Like _Beauty and The Beast._ Oh, or maybe _The Red Shoes_ ''. Hooke couldn't help but be impressed; he was clearly well-versed in tales.

''Well, since you ask, I adore _La Belle et La Bete_ (Peter seemingly understood the title), it's definitely my favourite, though _The Ugly Duckling_ is very good, too…'' She said, stroking the spine of an Andersen edition. Looking back at Peter, that childish excitement seemed to have melted away any trace of anger he might have had; the imp-boy was mercurial, so unpredictable. But she knew every minute he stayed in her cabin, the closer he came to being discovered.

''Peter? As I was saying, I-I would like to talk properly, I think… If that's alright? On the Island?''

His face adopted a frown briefly. ''Why, though?''

''I just do.''

''Just?''

''I'm… I'm lonely here. And when I realised you'd left your thimble behind after you'd stayed, I supposed, because I think a lot, that you're probably really jolly complex and I don't know…'' She chewed her lip again, and looked at the volumes on the shelves in front of her, ''Maybe… Maybe I'd like to get to know you. Understand you. Maybe even be friends?''

''Hmm…''

Peter floated over to the bed, and, sitting cross-legged on the end of it, observed the Mistress Hooke in all her nervousness.

''This isn't a trick?''

''No, Peter.''

''And I can have my thimble back?''

She chuckled.

''You picked it up already.''

''So I did. Well… In that case, yes. I'll talk with you. Where shall we meet?''

Ah. Francesca hadn't considered that yet. She racked her brain quickly, trying to fathom some way she could see him.

''You don't know, do you?''

She shook her head.

''Hmm. I can come here, and fly you to the Island? Later tonight? We can go to one of the towns, or maybe a field or something. Whatever, I don't mind.'' In his mind, Peter felt he should act somewhat distant to this girl. Although she directly didn't pose a threat, he was not entirely at ease seeing her. If she did anything to threaten him, he could run her through. Clean, quick death. Not that it would come to that. If anything, it'd be easier (and funnier) to leave her stranded on a remote part of Neverland. Hmm.

''I-I'm agreeable to that.''

''Good. And Hook?''

''My name's Francesca…''

''Francesca.''

''Mmm?''

''Bring a book?''

Her mouth fell open a little in surprise, but she quickly smiled, genuinely, and nodded. As Peter climbed onto the desk again, preparing to leave, she suddenly found she had a thousand questions to ask, but felt she should wait until later.

''I'm sorry!'' she blurted out quickly. Peter simply beamed in response.

''By the way,'' he chuckled, turning back one more time before leaping out of the window, ''Do you really find me handsome yet intriguing?''

. . . .

 **A/N:**

 **Hello again everyone! I'm sorry this chapter has taken so long to upload, I've been a bit disillusioned again, and preoccupied with other projects, not to mention my dissertation, but here it is: Chapter Eight! If you enjoyed this chapter or have any comments to make on my writing, or indeed where you think the plot may go, please leave a review, I love 'em!- Vivienne.**


	9. Picnic

Francesca checked herself in the mirror for the third time that hour; a long, flowing white nightdress, a blue cloak with a hood, her hair down and loose, coal-tone ringlets falling around her face, dark yet with a slight sheen. Subconsciously she wished to impress the Ageless Boy, going so far as to wet her lips and try to tease in some volume to her hair. Upon her desk, two books lay; a copy of French fairy tales, and a notebook, accompanied with a pencil for note-taking. She was a fastidious writer, preferring to note everything down and work from those scrawls than from memory. The clock that she kept hidden in her wardrobe rang a muffled 'bong'; 23:00. He'd be here any moment. She sat in the window seat, gazing out across the bay, hoping, wishing, that he could answer some questions.

. . .

Looking out at the _Jolly Roger_ , Peter hugged his arms around his body; even with a stolen shirt on (Which looked rather buccaneer on the lad), he was still cold. He took one final moment to assure himself that seeing the pirate girl was what he wanted, and leapt from the cliff, falling into flight. His eyes closed and heart quickened; another adventure?

Shortly before he was to hit the water, Peter threw his arms out before him, and rose back into the air a little, flying mere inches from the water's surface, planning on coming up to the ship quickly, quietly, discreetly.

. . .

Two soft knocks fell against the window. Rebecca was leaning against the corner frame, gazing into the cabin from the stern of the ship, mindful of her bare feet. How it thrilled her to take this step back toward girlhood, to have no regard for her attire for a change (Her footwear, at least), the natural warmth of the timbers contrasting with the soft tingles of the cool night air. Pulling her cloak further around her, she heeded the second set of raps at the window, and opened it as silently as possible, a finger to her lips, cheeks flushed, both with nerves and the slight chill let in through the aperture.

''I'm here, like I promised.'' Peter whispered, kneeling atop her desk.

''I can see that… I realised after you left you probably don't know how to tell the time, I could have given you a watch or something-''

''-you have a watch? I didn't think Hook would let anyone aboard have anything clock-like''.

She sighed, and shuffled her feet against the rug, trying to regain some of the warmth lost to the window. ''I do. Well, I have a watch and a clock. I could have spared the watch, but anyway, it doesn't matter, you're here.'' Smiling anxiously, starting to second-guess her choice to go out with this boy, Francesca collected the basket she'd stowed within one of the trunks in the cabin. ''Shall we?''

''Hmm. Not yet.''

''Why not?'' She panicked. Was he going to try to reprimand her for the incident with the sword? For the thimble-come-kiss?

''It's cold out. Well, you know that, you're shivering – and don't try to deny it.'' Peter's eye twinkled slightly in the low candlelight. ''Why don't we take a blanket?'' Now he looked sheepish; what would she think of his suggestion? It may only be a blanket, but that could lead to cuddles, and cuddles might go… Well… _Further_. ''We'll take one anyway, just in case. What's in the basket?''

''Well… I thought it might be nice to have something to eat while we're out. I don't know how long we'll be, and if it's cold it's probably best to have something, so I managed to sneak a few fruit and meat pies, an apple each, some bread and cheese…'' Noticing Peter's attention wane, she stopped. ''But anyway, that's only if you want it. Otherwise I'll just bring the book.'' _And my notebook_ , she thought to herself.

''I was thinking it does, actually. It'll be nice to not have to imagine my food for a change''. He smiled; she returned it.

It suddenly occurred to Francesca that she hadn't a clue how the two were going to make it to the island; she couldn't fly, and his fairy friend hadn't been with him on this occasion. _Damn._ Was he to carry her like some helpless maiden? Well, she was. It was just like being back in England. The endless arms offered to help her in and out of carriages, inability to use stairs unaccompanied, the chaperonage by one of the schoolmistresses whilst she attended events or being courted (unsuccessfully) by some son of a local lord… It was exhilarating. And embarrassing. All for the wrong reasons.

''Peter, wait!'' she hissed as the boy turned to climb back out of the window, blanket in hand. Peering back at her quizzically, he gestured to the open air beside him. ''Are we not going?''

''Yes, of course we are, but I- ''

''Miss? What's that I can hear? Capt'n said to check on you even if you said you're okay.''

Keys fumbled at the door. Smee's typically non-threatening voice now became more frightening than the notion of being caught with Pan. With no time to think, Peter found himself fumbled under the blanket, and behind Francesca's smooth, china-doll legs as she sat upon the desk, blanket draped over her lap. With a gentle kick, Peter knew it was time to remain silent. It really was exciting!

Finally, the door opened. Mistress Hooke looked up from her book. Its cover stared back, silent yet mocking _._

''Everything alright, Miss?''

''Yes, thank you, Smee. Why wouldn't it be?''

''Well I… I heard you pacing, or I thought I did, and… What's that hamper of food in here for?''

The pair panicked. _Caught. Rumbled._

''I brought it in earlier today. I get hungry sometimes when I stay up reading, or I forget to eat, and I thought this was the most sensible thing to do. I hope that's alright, Smee?''

Scratching the bald patch atop his shiny red head, Smee took a moment to ponder. ''I suppose so… If you ask next time, I'll slip you in some wine or small beer. I know the Capt'n doesn't like you having a nip, but you're a grown woman now… Anyway, I'll get back to… What was I doing?''

He waddled away, mumbling to himself, and locked the door behind him. Sighing softly, the young couple stood again, Peter's hair brushing against Francesca's thigh as he slipped out from between her legs. It had taken much strength not to look up, or to tickle her. It was a dangerous game they were playing this time, one with real consequences (though he knew yet not what they might be). Her voice carried a soft moan as the last curled strand passed over her sensitive skin, and his ears burned.

 _Fuck… I want to hear that again,_ his body screamed to him. Francesca whimpered low, trying, barely managing, to restrain her breathing. Waiting until the jolly old pirate's paces had receded, Peter nimbly darted out from under the desk, practically _en-pointe_ as he offered his hand to the waiting lady.

''Well then…'' he smirked boyishly, ''Shall we fly?''

. . .

Francesca found herself being positioned most inelegantly in Peter's arms; one under her knees, the other supporting her… behind, and one of her arms (not too tightly) around his neck. With her free hand she clung desperately to her dignity, clutching the blanket and hamper close to her, as if by some miracle she would preserve either the food or her pride by holding them to her breast. Tucked safely inside said hamper was the copy of French fairy tales she had been mocked by only minutes ago. Within was her favourite version of _Beauty and The Beast,_ as well as what she had heard to be Peter's preferred story, _Cinderella._ Her heart sank a little; she'd heard this second-hand from the birds and fairies that often flew by her window, who gossiped about When. When Wendy was still Queen, and would regale the Lost Boys, and their Prince, with _Cinderella_ and _Sleeping Beauty_ , all the traditional fables.

How would her story-telling compare to Wendy's?

''Something on your mind?''

 _Oh no… I think he knows._

''N-No, I'm just a little cold is all.'' She mumbled in response, pulling the blanket around her tighter still.

''Hmm… Okay… Well, you just have that face that adults have, when they're thinking. I don't like it'', Peter frowned. ''I can't tell what's going on in their head.''

He was like a complex puzzle, Hooke decided, or a baby animal; curious, timid, and requiring careful handling. Thankfully in the small handful of encounters they had shared, thus far, there had only been one outburst, but nevertheless, the girl felt that wrong phrase or footing would cause no end of problems. Instead, she elected to fall silent until they reached the shore.

Without even realising it, Peter's earthy scent had begun to envelop her, working itself around her eyes, her sensitive little nose, and lulled the girl in his arms into a calm, silent state, allowing him to concentrate on his flight (or so he attempted to convince himself). Rather, Peter was still preoccupied with the memory of Hooke's soft moan under his touch from earlier, her hitched breath and, oh _Gods_ , those eyes when he had been angry with her.

He was equally as curious to learn more about his new potential enemy, though was cautious of becoming involved.

''Hoo- Francesca?''

''Hmm… Peter? Are we there?''

He scoffed, setting her down delicately in a grassy mound near the cliff's edge. They couldn't be seen from the ship here; but they could see it. In the back of his mind, he recalled briefly contemplating taking her to the clouds, and observing the bay from that celestial height, but it didn't sit right with him. He couldn't share that view with another girl.

''I think you fell asleep on the way, silly.'' he continued quickly, crouching opposite her and trying, in vain, to ignore the swell of her chest as it rose and fell with each languid intake of breath.

''I… I rather suppose I did,'' Francesca stifled a yawn, and went to pull her cloak around her before taking stock of the situation. ''You know… You're shivering. Please, don't be stubborn, there's my cloak, and the blanket. I think I may have an urn of tea in there somewhere.'' She offered, hoping it didn't read as an instruction. Taking a moment to consider the offer, Peter surprised her and drew closer, draping the blanket across their laps, positioning himself to face her slightly, enough to engage, and opened the hamper, passing over the French text, the flask of tea, and her notebook.

Smearing some cheese across a chunk of bread (most indelicately, the lady noted), Peter sighed.

''What's wrong?''

''I… I'm not a hundred percent sure this was the right idea, the right thing to do.'' He mumbled, playing with his hands; it had been a long, long time since anyone had read to him. Wendy had been the last, and he wasn't sure he was ready for another narrator so soon. But there was more to it than that; Francesca – Hooke – had fallen asleep in his arms, and he hadn't minded! This woman was infuriatingly confusing. She was the daughter of his sworn enemy, and yet only had the misfortune of sharing some of his looks and his name. But even then… Her vivid blue eyes met his, and he saw that she was questioning herself, too, questioning the propriety and sensibility of this evening encounter.

 _Gods… Her eyes match that cloak. So deep… I could drown in those eyes. Peter, what the hell are you thinking?!_

''To read stories, or to talk to me?'' Francesca responded, seemingly unoffended, though there was an air of sadness tinging her words.

He had to fix this, to convince her that he was still curious, that he did want to know her better. She tucked an errant curl behind her ear, and smiled sadly at him, waiting for her answer.

''Both? I'm a little tired, too, and that makes me cranky.'' Hopefully it would be enough of a reason, though he knew she most likely wouldn't be entirely convinced by it. He tore into the makeshift sandwich, stomach enjoying the tangible sustenance. Inhaling the entire confection with great speed, he sighed again, this time seemingly satiated.

''Food helps, I guess…'' He chewed out.

''True, very true. Might I have a pie, please, and an apple?''

The pair ate quietly, until all that was left was the tea. Pouring a cup for each of them, Francesca warmed her hands around the china, finally daring to take a sip a little too quickly.

Wiping her mouth with decorum, she smiled at her guest (for she was playing pastoral host this evening) who was eyeing the fairy tales. ''Does that one have _Cinderella_ in? I think she was French. Not that I'm anxious for you to read right now, you understand..!'' He added, keen to preserve his bravado. The hostess' smile only widened;

''It does. Would you like me to read to you? I don't mind. Sometimes it's nice to listen to other people's stories…''

 _And hopefully I'll get to hear yours_ , she thought, opening the pages to the start of Peter's favourite fairy tale.


End file.
